The Secret
by ImThatTypeOfGirl
Summary: His feet found a muddy path. The secret road, the hidden route, to the place that barely existed. One-shot.


**A/N: One-shot about the son of a serial killer. Inspired by 'Innocent' by Taylor Swift; I recommend you have a listen ;)**

**Disclaimer: Criminal Minds is not mine.**

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**CRIMINAL MINDS  
The Secret**

Rain whispered against the skin of his arms, against the surface of his closed lids. His feet found a muddy path through the tall grasses, well-worn after years of shoes upon it. The secret road, the hidden route, to the place that barely existed. He didn't need to see to know where he was, and so he kept his warm brown eyes firmly closed. He didn't want to see. If he had had them open, he would have seen a vast field of waving green grasses, waist-high, dark, almost eerie in the settling dusk. A sullen grey sky stretched out overhead; unending, unyielding, to any sunlight that attempted penetration of the inky cloud layer. Rain misted from theses clouds; not substantial enough to be droplets, not fine enough to not be raining at all. Everything about today seemed in between, as did the boy along the path that was not meant to be.

At the far side of the field there was a fence, old and rickety, wet wooden stakes scarcely holding it upright. He moved towards it, eyes flickering open just enough for him to see it over the rusted barbed wire, over the sickly brown sludge beneath the posts and into the meadow beyond. The grasses here were not nearly as tall as those of the land before; they barely grazed his knees as he pressed along the secret road. His heading became apparent as a lone tree came into view; gnarled, twisted, spooky and dark. It was strong though. It looked over a few hundred years old, at the least. It was rooted to the spot, like the wall of a castle, unmoving and unbreakable. But stones crumble. Bark, skin, of the living and breathing, does not.

A small, unstable house nestled in the tree's embrace. Enveloped by sturdy wooden arms, warmed by deep opal-shaded leaves, the walls had not yet fallen prey to the harsh climate of these lands. A rough and ragged ladder had been fitted to the trunk of the tree. The nails had long since rusted and stained the wood they held an unappealing shade of almost-orange. Over time, the tree had rejected the iron bindings and had grown out around them in an attempt to thrust the nails from its skin. The nails stayed, and the tree had persisted in its futile attempt to rid itself of them for further years.

The boy came up to the foot of this tree and he opened his eyes. His feet were bruised and bleeding, leaving a trail of crimson along the line of his secret road, to the place that never should have existed. This place, this meadow, with this tree and the house it carried. The boy moved forward, lips trembling, eyes smarting with tears. He'd held them in the whole way here, but now that his hands found the ribs of the ladder he could hardly contain them. He reached the entrance of the tree house before they escaped, and suddenly it was hard to tell if his dirty cheeks were stained with his own tears or those of the sky.

The inside of the tree house was surprisingly warm, and surprisingly dry. There were no windows and the entrance did not have a door. The wind could not reach this place, this place that was no meant to be. The boy got to his feet and stretched out in the centre of the room. He was tall for his age and found it difficult to stand upright in the confined space. He could only be sixteen at the most, but fifteen was more likely. His black hair was long and shaggy; it hadn't seen a cut in a while, and curled about the sides of his jaw and the nape of his neck. The faded blue and white checkered shirt he wore was ripped and torn all along the edges and up the back, and his dark blue jeans weren't much better.

_He tried to tell them, once._

In his fist he held a knife, a knife glistening with the blood of a young girl. Her name was Jessica. She had long blonde hair and pretty green eyes. She liked maths and astrology. She was dead now.

_And he never tried again._

Underneath the dripping scarlet blood there were stains. Rebecca. Ella. Rachel. Erin. Erica. Anna. Sally. Monica. So many names he could barely remembered them all. Fleeting, beautiful, blood, screaming: words that seemed so meaningless once he saw their bent and broken bodies, once he saw the dull, milky glaze of their eyes. He had to close their lids, close their view of the world forever. They would never see the stars again. They would never watch the sunrise, or sunset. They would never laugh, or smile, or kiss. He had to drag the bodies, unceremoniously, to the forest. He had to strike the earth with the shovel, hear it shriek at what he was about to do, _again_. Hear it protest as the girl was so suddenly wrapped up in its arms. Hear it subside as he filled the ditch and left the woods with the shovel dragging in the dirt behind him.

Before all of this, life was simple, life was good. He had wonderful memories of running the length of a cut wheat-field, following a trail of fireflies as they danced through the night. His father had thundered along behind him, chuckling merrily to see his son so excited at the tiny, golden insects. They had stayed out in the dark until sunrise, laughing and playing and rolling over and over in the spiky stems of crops long gone. A beautiful world, before the things he had done began to haunt the hours of the night, began to seep into his dreams and then appeared every time he closed his eyes.

There was nothing inside the tree house but a box in the far right corner, crouched, shadowed. Hiding from the outside world. He moved over and bent down, lifting the lid with one shaking hand. He dropped the knife in, watching as a few of his own tears followed suit. Then a hand went to his pocket. His fingers found Jessica's photograph, part of her face smeared in red. He let it fall from his hand, into the box also, to land amidst the photos of a thousand others. Faces who'd never be found. Faces of who'd never breathe again.

He had to shut the lid but he allowed himself to linger. He shouldn't, but he did, and the whispers began to creep out. Slowly at first, just one by one; voices, laughter, snippets of conversations and fights and things he didn't understand. A rush, a tumble and very quickly they began to swarm him, overpower him. They turned suddenly accusing, hissing and swearing, battering him to the floor. He squeaked in fright but there was no sound. Struggling back to his feet, he pushed down hard on the lid of the box and it slammed shut, too loud in the abrupt silence. The whispers faded and the thoughts in his head stilled. Breathing heavily, he got back to his feet and turned to leave, desperate to get away from this place.

There was a person in the meadow.

He could see them from the tree house, from the safety of the shadows and these wooden walls. It was a woman, with black hair (not unlike his own) scraped back into a ponytail. He couldn't make out the exact colour of her eyes, but they seemed to be a dark brown, not the pale shade his were. She was wearing a navy blue t-shirt with a bullet-proof vest strapped over the top; FBI scored in yellow across the front. Her trousers seemed too smart and business-like for running through the fields, as did her shoes. There was a gun in her hands. She looked up. She saw him.

"Charlie?" she called, and his heart began to beat hard in his chest. _Run!_ screamed his mind, but there was nowhere to run _to_. He was trapped. And if he let the secret slip…

He backed into the furthest corner of the tree house, spine connecting with the rough wood of the walls, feet skittering off of the floor. He couldn't breathe he was so scared, the air catching in his throat, his tears frozen in fear. They'd found him, they'd found _out_. How? He hadn't said a word! He…_couldn't_.

"Charlie?" the woman called again. She lowered the gun. "Charlie? Charlie, my name's Emily. Are you alright?"

_Emily_. There had been a girl called that once, with soft brown curls and a beautiful smile. She was hidden under the ground, in the forest, drowned in earth so their secret was safe. He'd seen her picture. He'd seen her corpse. He'd seen her blood as slipped from the cold metal of the knife.

"Charlie? Please, I'm not here to hurt you, I swear. Look, I'm putting down my gun, Charlie. I'm putting it right here, see?"

Indeed she was. She placed the gun in the grass and advanced toward the tree house, very slowly. Her hands were raised to show she was submitting.

"Can I come up, Charlie?" she asked, her voice soft. "I'm not armed."

Charlie contemplated. She seemed friendly enough, and he could hardly give away the secret now. What did it matter? She'd found them. The game was up, and they'd been caught. All he had to do now was give in. The years of running, hiding, lying, cheating, stealing…so suddenly it all seemed to be for nothing, washed away into this misty rain. As if a heavy weight had been lifted from his chest, he moved off of the wall and took a couple of steps forward. As soon as he was sure she could see him, he nodded in confirmation of her question. She climbed slowly up the ladder and crawled into the tree house. But instead of towering over him like he'd expected, she crossed her legs and sat on the floor. He suddenly felt tall.

"I know what your dad did," she said, and his breathing sped up a little. "And I'm sorry. I know how hard this is for you, Charlie. I know how much it hurts. But if you come with me now, this'll all be over. I'll protect you from him, I promise you."

She looked at him with wide, concerned eyes. And as he held her gaze, he was suddenly angry. She was beautiful, and smart, and kind, just like every one of those girls he'd buried in that forest. He didn't want to bury any more. He didn't want the guilt of their long-dead eyes lingering on his face, didn't want the shame of what he had done to protect himself. And Emily was offering him a way out.

But could he trust her?

The rain was heavier now, washing down the windows of the car, seeping into the splits in the metal. Charlie gazed out into the night, feeling warm and safe - and for once in his life, _content_. The soft material of the BMW's seats felt like silk against his skin. It had been a long time since life had felt this good.

His mind flashed back to the walks he'd made through that field, through the meadow and the climb up into the tree house. The secret road, the hidden route, the path that never should have had the need to exist. He'd never wanted any part in it, but his dad had made him - made him swear not to tell. And when he'd broken his promise, his father had taken his words and cast them out into the rain. Charlie would never talk again, but that didn't matter anymore. He had Emily, and now her friend, Aaron. And they understood him. They understood what he'd been through. Charlie settled back into the seat of the car and let a smile pass his lips, let his eyes droop as the heaters warmed his chilled bones. He'd never lie again.

And as the years went by the FBI closed the case, and they removed their men from the field of Charlie's dad's house, and too quickly the whole thing was forgotten. But the path is still there, scored through the grass, ran through the mud, worn into the wood. The secret road, the hidden route, to the place that was never meant to be. The ancient tree was cut down, but the truths it held are still there, and can still be heard. As a whisper on the wind, as a cry in the rain, as a sad song in the darkness of the night…

The dead never forget.


End file.
